


Coming-of-Age Shit

by Puppeteer (Cendree), t34lbloods (perculious)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Homestuck Shipping World Cup, M/M, Self-cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:09:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cendree/pseuds/Puppeteer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/perculious/pseuds/t34lbloods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk visits his denizen and makes a Choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the HSWC Collab Round. The intro and the sexy branch were written by t34lbloods, and the fighty branch was written by tumblr user pumpkinkind.

In a land where the air forced you to build up, Yaldabaoth's lair is deep underground. You understand that you're supposed to suffer some cursory indignities here. The hour spent trudging down and down a seemingly infinite spiral; the featureless dirt walls making you wonder, after a while, if you haven't just gone mad and hallucinated that you've ever seen a world above this mulchy hellhole; the growing claustrophobia as your mechanical brain ticks away every inch you descend; it's all part of constructing the right atmosphere for your ultimate boss battle showdown. SBURB is considerate that way.

He's down here, just as fucking massive and glowy as all the little stone plaques you unlocked in the tombs said he'd be. You have a sudden, fleeting wish for your adventure partner at your side. Some people get phantom limbs, and you've got a phantom Jake. It flickers in and out but it's aching particularly badly right now, during the one task you'd have to do alone even if Jake hadn't left.

In front of you is a stack of glistening red coils, each ring the circumference of a sequoia and shiny as a beetle's wing. Yaldabaoth's face is obscured by light so bright you can hardly look at it. You try your best to meet his gaze, your eyes watering.

"Hello, Prince," he says, his voice thick and syrupy, like the congealed goo at the bottom of 400-year-old bottles of orange soda.

"Hey," you say. You've got no patience for whatever moral test bullshit he's going to put you through. You had no patience for interpreting the little drips and drabs of info given to you in shitty verse behind rocks and minigames all over LOTAK. Jake thought that shit was cool. But he's gone, so you don't have to anymore.

"You seek something from me," the denizen says. Although you can't really see his head, you can tell he's weaving back and forth, and the swooping and flickering of the light is making you dizzy.

"Yeah."

"Tell me," Yaldabaoth says. His giant mouth is nothing but a slash in his face, and his eyes are like holes to the planet surface.

You push a strand of hair back into place. "Roxy's up there making mountains out of thin air, Jane can bring people back to life and Jake's clapping his hands to believe in fairies or whatever. I can't do shit." You hesitate. You can barely see his expression, but you still feel like he's unimpressed by your bullshit bravado. That makes two of you. "And I've been trying," you add. "I looked way down deep in my heart and I found a big load of fucking nothing. I need some help."

Yaldabaoth pauses, and the movement of his head stills. "You request the assistance of your denizen in realizing the powers of your heroic role."

"Yeah," you say, and then because you can't let anything go, you keep going. "I know it's this coming-of-age shit. I know I'm supposed to look inward and achieve my own personal quest, but I've got that. I know that. I know what's wrong with me. Narcissistic, huge ego, fucking irritating the shit out of everyone with my overbearing nature and inability to leave well enough alone. Being berated by the funhouse mirror version of my own sick psyche for the past three years hasn't done shit, so I doubt anything can at this point. Let's just cut that part and skip straight to winning the game, okay?"

You let your mouth run as you size him up. The cave poems kept calling the Prince a warrior. A fighter. There's no way he'll help you for free; he's going to attack you. You're not sure you can take him, even as a god tier and with the combat experience you've racked up. But the game wouldn't have brought you here unless you had some chance to win.

Yaldabaoth is silent for a few moments, his coils moving sinuously against each other with a noise like air leaking out of a tire.

"There is a reason achieving the god tiers requires sacrifice," he says. "Your immortality was gifted to you. You tarried long in addressing your deficiencies."

You know. You know there's no way to cheat this. You've seen everyone else achieve their skills through personal growth and fucking self-actualization. It's just that you're pretty sure you're not capable of any of that. You kind of fucked up when you chose to bury yourself in an ocean of Dirk Strider; there's nothing about yourself to realize, nothing new to figure out. You know yourself too well and you know you're shit, and there's not much to be done about it. You're not going to find hidden wells of strength. You're never going to be able to trust yourself long enough to get what you're supposed to be doing. You're never going to stop feeling stupid and self-conscious about the fact that your power is Heart. You're still embarrassed about the fucking pants.

"Do you know what a demiurge is, Prince?"

You shrug. "Creation figure."

"An artisan," Yaldabaoth replies. "A creator, but not a benefactor. A demiurge simply builds. He does not watch over." A pause, presumably to let you ponder the extreme fucking wisdom just imparted to you. "You and I are not so different."

"And I wonder," he continues, "why you are so certain that I will engage you myself. I do not see a need to fight you."

You're not shocked that he can apparently read your mind, because why the fuck would you be shocked by anything at this point?

"You are correct that I require you to face a challenge," he says. "It will be, like everything in this planet, tailored to you and your needs." He pauses, and emits a hissing noise, like steam rising from a hot pavement; it's impossible to tell if it's coming from his mouth or his strange, undulating body. "I will be interested to see how you proceed, Prince."

The light grows abruptly brighter, and despite yourself you turn away, raising an arm to shield your eyes. After a moment, the light behind your eyes goes black. You open your eyes to nothing but purple and green afterimages. You blink a few times, attempting to clear your vision, and peer into the darkness.

A figure is approaching you.

Fuckin' hell. It's you. Not even some godly shining replica of you; you can see the dirt smudge on Other Dirk's left cheek from when you stumbled on the way down here, and the mark on his right hand from when you accidentally cut yourself with the blade of your sword pulling it out of an underling last week.

You scan your own visage, and the familiar sludge of self-loathing begins to lap at your insides. You tick off the checklist of shit you can't stand. The sheer fucking vanity of the way you've shaped your hair. The stupid affectation of the shades. The look on your face so impassive it makes you want to punch it off. You look exactly how you want to look: chill, cool, a stone-cold motherfucker. You look hot. It pisses you off.

"Christ," you say, wondering if he talks. How real is this dude? Is he just some reflection of you, or can he think for himself?

"Yo," the other Dirk says.

"So the big denizen challenge is just another fucking splinter," you say. "That's it. I just get to experience the sheer fucking joy of conversing with my own sparkling personality for the millionth fucking time."

Other Dirk shrugs, exactly the way you would've except you hate him for it. "You don't have to if you don't want to. You get to make that choice."

"Okay," you say. "Alright. What am I choosing between? Do you get to tell me that?"

He shoves his hands in the pockets of his puffy god tier pants. They look stupid as hell, but the tights show off how muscled your -- his -- legs have gotten from roaming around the medium, and his hair looks sharp as shit, even after the climb underground.

"I'm not your fucking sprite," he says. "I don't tell you game stuff. I'm not here to spoonfeed you the pureed carrots of hard knowledge. I'm just here. You figure out what to do about it."

So you get to do whatever you want. "Come closer," you try.

He snorts. "No."

There's this burn you get right below your sternum whenever you talk to AR or reread your old chat logs. The discomfort of being faced with your own fucking awfulness, like a brainfreeze in the center of your ribcage. You can feel it now, aching away and causing your hands to curl up into fists. The thing about having the splinters is that your anger doesn't know where to direct itself. It's odd to feel self-hatred towards an outside entity. It's like the loathing is too big to contain within your own compact body.

At the same time, most of your splinters don't look like you. AR is a pair of shades, Brobot is a hunk of metal, and the other robots you've put various bits of yourself into are all too stylized to read as Dirk Strider. Dream Dirk always seemed like a part of you until he was dead. You've never faced yourself so literally, and you have to admit you're impressed with how good this act is. The shades, the hair, the demeanor -- it's all working. You look fucking good.

 

WHAT DO YOU DO?

> [FIGHT YOURSELF](http://archiveofourown.org/works/967414/chapters/1899087)  
> [FUCK YOURSELF](http://archiveofourown.org/works/967414/chapters/1899091)


	2. > FIGHT YOURSELF

> FIGHT YOURSELF

It's infuriating.

You are tense and the loathing-induced burning is only getting worse. Hey, if you hate yourself so much, why don't you hate-punch yourself in the goddamn dick? Great, that sounds perfect, A+ plan. Let's do it.

You shift your weight to one leg to prepare yourself for the sprint that you are about to take towards him because you have made The Choice and it happens to be kill your double. You are going to fight him and win and possibly piss on his corpse, simple as that. You've already gone through this whole killing yourself routine once before and it totally worked in your favor since you saved everyone and still managed to reach God Tier. You are practically an old hand at this.

As you run through the battle plan, some background processes are harping on how this doesn't feel quite right. This is too obvious of a challenge for the reward you're seeking: get over yourself by fighting yourself, conquer the duplicates to understand the real you. You know you're supposed to be the warrior, because Yaldabaoth is your denizen and your title is Prince, but is it really as simple as proving it through a battle with your greatest enemy or whatever? You have your doubts. But the part of your brain that is housing those doubts is probably full of shit, just like the rest of your brain.

When you equip your katana, other Dirk squints at you behind his shades and you know that he's just trying to make you doubt yourself because he's you. You aren't falling for it. You can't puppet the puppeteer, motherfucker. You smirk at him. He shrugs.

Fuck, this isn't right.

"Ready?" you ask, but you don't know why the hell you are bothering. You have never bothered asking before and you're always ready anyway. He opens his mouth to tell you so and you really don't want to hear it. You don't give him the courtesy of vocalization before you launch yourself at him, swinging with the force of your whole body towards his neck, knowing he's going to have anticipated this.

He doesn't pull the sword out of his specibus until you are a half second from slicing his head clean off. You know he knows you knew he was waiting for you to nearly hit him to block because it looks cool and you are both massive dickholes that give too many shits about your image. It's so cocky and stupid that you are legitimately disgusted. Still, you regret giving him the satisfaction of not being the aggressor for goddamn once because he's clearly reveling in it, even as he is struggling to recover from the advantage you took.

The swords crash against each other and his blade slides roughly down yours and maybe you should have just used your dick to get this done instead. That would have been preferable.

Or maybe instead of thinking about how much this reminds you of frot and how much sex you could be having with yourself right now, you should focus on the choice you made and keep fighting. He shoves hard against you, pushing you away from him, and you have to give.

A backwards leap takes you out of his swing diameter and as you resettle on your feet, your fingers curl and uncurl on the hilt of your sword while his do the exact same. It reminds you of when you used to look in the mirror to correct your own stance and grip, since you never had anyone to teach you but yourself. His form is perfect though, just like yours. No corrections needed.

This is the dumbest fucking thing in the world. Unless your boy Yalda decided to buff this clone or impart some of his divine snakesun wisdom on this other Dirk just to fuck around since he's being really stingy with you, he's going to have your same everything. You are identical and every shithead knows you can't overpower yourself. It's actually reassuring because obviously you are going to have to outlogic the piece of shit in front of you while he tries to do the same to you and if that doesn't develop your character, you don't know what will. There are like a million video games with this exact boss battle; it's a tired trope but at least it's familiar. 

You clash again in a blur of maroon, his movements familiar and foreign at the same time since they're yours and being performed by your body but without the proprioception normally associated with that sort of thing. He slashes and stabs and you block and parry and vice versa. Neither of you get in a hit. He looks as hot as ever.

After another ineffective copulation of your swords, both of you fall back. With your eyes locked, you stand still as statues directly across from each other while the invisible camera pans and the nonexistent music swells. This whole battle feels like it's practically been ripped from a martial arts film and the only thing really occupying your mind while you stare down your opponent is that Jake would probably have such a boner right now.

It's as if the other Dirk knows that you are thinking about your ex and his dick and you're about as distracted as you are going to get because he disappears and you have to get into a squat to brace against the blade coming down towards your head. The loud rattle of your identical weapons smashing into each other is your warning that he's about to press forward and get in your face.

Inches away from you, he looks intense and focused. Shit, you hope you do too.

"Man, you look like a goddamn deer in headlights," he says, definitely too much you to do anything other than read your every fucking thought and spit them right into your face. "I almost feel bad that you thought this was the correct choice."

You try to reciprocate by actually spitting into his face but he moves back too quickly and it lands, gross and foamy, on the dirt between you. His lip curls slightly in disgust, once again a mirror of your own expression.

"Fuck you," you say, straightening up and brandishing your katana in a way that's meant to convey how sick you are of his horseshit, which is also your horseshit. The piles upon piles of horseshit stop here.

"Yeah, that would have been preferable." You stare at him, annoyed because that was obnoxiously predictable. You had hoped that you wouldn't stoop to the level of witty retorts but you also knew you were going to because that's the sort of douche you are. You hate yourself so much.

Gritting your teeth, you decide the only way to do this is give up on any kind of strategy or forethought and just run at him head on, like a goddamn idiot, because why the hell would you ever do that. It should be the last thing he expects. He looks extremely unimpressed and braces himself with his sword across his torso but you actually aren't aiming there. You feint with your sword in your left hand and swing your right fist at his face. It connects satisfyingly with his jaw and his head snaps back and his shades go askew as he rolls with it. He hisses and groans in pain and you think you might see a little blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, like how your decapitated head looked when Jake made out with it. It makes you smile.

"Stop hitting yourself," you coo at him, seeing red. He chokes on his blood when you throw your fist again and hit him in the nose. He won't be as hot as you when it's broken.

He staggers back, sword falling to the ground with a clatter as he clutches his face, which you take as a sign of victory. You lower your fist to better enjoy the blood now streaming from his nose and staining his hands, and therein lies your downfall. His leg suddenly swings up in some move like out of the fucking Matrix and you find yourself being roundhouse-kicked in the stomach.

The breath is knocked out of you and you land heavily and painfully, on your back, in the dirt. You wheeze and the whole world spins.

He stands over you, teeth bared in hatred and his nosebleed steadily dripping into your face, and lifts his stupid green shoe up. It takes a second too long because you might be concussed but you flinch, thinking he might be about to grind his foot into your face. He doesn't. He just kicks soil into your hair. His still looks perfect. He's the worst.

You make a grab for his ankle--you can still take him down--except he's not there anymore.

You close your eyes, waiting for your breath and your pulse to return to normal. It only takes a minute, but you continue to lie there. Maybe if you don't get up, you don't have to deal with the fact that a snake creature with a sun for a head probably just saw you do that. Hopefully that was the right thing to do. You've proven yourself a worthy warrior, right?

As it turns out, you don't have to make the choice. With your eyes closed, you can still see the light growing in the room until everything behind your eyelids is red. Yaldabaoth is here. You crack your eyes open and scramble to your feet, squinting against the light. Your eyes need time to adjust.

You wait for him to speak. You know you didn't pass the test. Fuck, the guy got you.

"What made you think you needed to engage with the projection of your self that I provided for you?" Yaldabaoth says, his voice creaking like a poorly-tuned violin.

The fuck?

"The Prince of Heart is supposed to be a warrior," you say.

"Did you think of that? Or did you merely act on your own impulses?" Yaldabaoth says. "Did you truly believe the challenge I presented you with was to defeat your own self? Or was it simply the desire that the challenge generated within you?"

You rally, self-consciously pushing your hair back into some approximation of how it's supposed to look. "You mean did I just really want to punch myself in the face." You give yourself one last finger-comb, and then drop your hand. "Yeah, probably."

"Prince, you arrived here claiming to understand that there are no shortcuts to realizing your potential," Yaldabaoth intones. "And yet when faced with a challenge, you proceeded by the most obvious path, and the one that aligned with your personal desires."

Okay, that's not fair. You assumed you'd have to fight because everything on your planet has told you that you are expected to fight. Not just because you wanted to beat yourself up. Although it was a nice bonus.

"Prince of Heart, you were correct in your earlier self-assessment. Unfortunately, narcissism is not the same as self-reflection." Yaldabaoth's large body uncoils a bit, and he raises his head, arching his neck so that the light of his face hits you like an interrogation lamp. "Until you can look a little deeper, I cannot assist you."

You stand there, feeling like you're waking up with a trickster hangover all over again. It's not like you're not trying to change. What the fuck were you supposed to do when faced with a copy of yourself? Ignore it? This is exactly why you came here in the first place. Because you have no idea what you're supposed to do to get over yourself.

"Fuck this," you say. "You can't tell me anything about how to make my powers work?"

The denizen's coils are moving again, his great body slowly but continuously twining over and through itself. "You came all the way down to my lair to ask me," he says, "rather than figure it out on your own. Did you truly think I could help?"

Yeah, you did, but you should have known better. Nothing in this game has helped you out so far. Your sprite is a headache personified, your planet's air tried to asphyxiate you, and your powers are a big wet disappointment. But fuck that. Nothing's worked the way you wanted it to your whole life, and you've always managed to figure shit out. Keeping your head above water is your specialty, even if it feels like you're swimming through concrete. Even if apparently this is so fucking easy for everyone else, people who don't have to fight their own personalities every second.

"No, you're right," you say. "I'll figure it out." You unequip your sword, and head the fuck out of there. You don't look back. 

> [TRY AGAIN?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/967414#tryagain)


	3. > FUCK YOURSELF

> FUCK YOURSELF

This guy is you, so you don't have to go through a lot of shitty machinations.

"Can we fuck?"

"Yeah," he says, and then he does move closer.

Within a few minutes, you've got him pressed into the dirt. He said you could choose, after all, and you want to be the one pushing him down. He kisses you with way more teeth than necessary, like he's trying to make it as uncomfortable for you as possible, and you hate it. You hate him. You scrape up a handful of moist soil from the ground and grind it into his hair.

"Fuck you," he gasps out, shoving his thigh between your legs and pressing up, like he's trying to hurt you in retaliation. You grind down and tug at his gritty hair. Your dick's been hard since the second he said he wanted to do this.

He's so fucking hot, and of course he'd be, because you're the one who styled yourself in a way you'd like. Maybe you're the only one who'd like it. You bite at his jaw, his throat, pausing to sink your teeth into his shoulder so hard he gasps again. You wonder if bruises you leave on him will show up on you later. The thought makes you bite harder.

He tears at your clothes. "Get these off, they look so stupid," he says. "I can't even look at you." He pulls your shirt up by the hood, and you let him take it off you, hoping he's admiring the stomach muscles you've built up. You know he's got them too, but you hope he's appreciating seeing them on you.

"You're the one still wearing your fucking shades," you say. He reaches up and pulls you down by the hair into another painful kiss. Your teeth knock together and he bites down on your bottom lip.

When you pull apart, you grab his shades and, following a deeply-held desire, snap them in half. You throw them to the side and tug his waistband down. He laughs, an irritating, throaty little chuckle. Do you always sound that smug? Is that what your friends have to put up with?

"Be more fucking transparent," the other Dirk says. "You just literally broke and threw away a representation of your own self. This is some fucking dream symbolism bullshit."

"Shut up," you say. "Take off the asshole pants."

You both shimmy out of what remains of your clothes. He's as hard as you are, and the sight of his flushed dick makes you want this even more. It's hot that it's your own dick. It's hot seeing yourself turned on. It's like masturbating in front of a mirror.

You spit on your palm and wrap your hand around his dick, smearing your spit over the head. He groans and, instead of clutching at the ground or biting his lip, grabs your ass and digs his fingers in. It annoys you, so you start stroking him roughly, not bothering to re-wet your palm when the spit dries. His hips jerk up in little spasms, and although he refuses to make noise, you can hear the way his breath is tripping. It boosts your ego, and you know he'd hate that, which makes it even better. You lick your palm again to make it better for him so you can be even more smug.

After a few more seconds of clumsy jerking, he grips your hips and pulls you forward so that you almost fall on top of him. Luckily you've got one hand free to break your fall. He pulls your hips down, and yeah, you get it. He wants some nice rubbing action. He wants you to get in on this so he can get you gasping and desperate too. Too fucking bad. You like being the one who's getting him this worked up and you can put up with not getting your dick touched just yet if it means not surrendering the control. You lick your palm again and, this time, suck each of your fingers into your mouth one by one before putting your hand back on his dick. This time you start stroking him more deliberately, pressing your fingers into what you know are his most sensitive spots. His mouth falls open soundlessly.

"You asshole," he gasps out. "You fucking douche." He's digging his nails harder into your ass now, and it's unclear if it's because of the number you're doing on him, or because he's pissed. Maybe both. You speed up your movements, determined to get him off before he even touches you.

His hands slip down off your body and he presses them against the ground, curling his fingers into the dirt. His mouth is still open and his eyes are shut, and he no longer seems to care about anything but letting you work him over. You know the signs -- he makes a few rough movements, and when he starts holding his breath, you squeeze. That does it. Right as he starts to come, his hand whips up with a palmful of the dirt and he presses it into your scalp.

"Fuck!" you yell, jumping back. He's still shuddering through the orgasm, but he cracks his eyes open to give you the most self-satisfied look you've ever seen outside of a mirror. You shake the dirt out of your hair, shock and loathing making your gut churn. Jesus, what an insufferable prick.

"Fuck you too," the other Dirk says, sitting up. His come is all over his stomach and your hand.

He moves towards you, and before you know it there's a warm hand on your chest pushing you back, and another on your hip as Dirk lowers himself down.

Shit, he's going for the blowjob. Just had to fucking show you up, didn't he. Seriously, you hate this guy, and you can see the flakes of soil still left in his hair from earlier as he puts his mouth on your dick. His back is all dirty too, from you pressing him into the floor. It's disgusting, and you shudder a little with revulsion. You're so fucking turned on, and his mouth feels incredible, wet and warm.

He bobs up and down on your dick, swirling his tongue on each upstroke, and it doesn't take you long to get close. Watching him get off was one of the hottest things you've ever seen, and you were already basically ready to come.

The other Dirk glances up at you, and the look in his eyes is so vitriolic that your stomach drops. A tiny noise escapes from your throat and you inwardly curse. He didn't make any noise, shit, does that mean you lost? You're still trying to figure it out when he sucks you back in and you come suddenly, your stomach muscles tensing.

Shit. It feels motherfucking incredible.

You take your sweet time riding it out, feeling the postcoital tingle spread all the way down to your toes. When you open your eyes, you're not particularly surprised to see that he's gone. 

You look down, and the jizz on your hand is gone too. That's a convenient clean-up.

You close your eyes again, waiting for your breath and your pulse to return to normal. It only takes a minute, but you continue to lie there. Maybe if you don't get up, you don't have to deal with the fact that a snake creature with a sun for a head probably just saw you do that. Hopefully that was the right thing to do. You've proven you can embrace yourself now, right?

As it turns out, you don't have to make the choice. With your eyes closed, you can still see the light growing in the room until everything behind your eyelids is red. Yaldabaoth is here. 

You're still naked. Whatever. He's a god, right, or at least a god-like figure. He can handle a little nudity. You crack your eyes open and scramble to your feet, squinting against the light. Your eyes need time to adjust.

You want to ask if you've passed the challenge, but you get the feeling you're not supposed to speak first. You stand there, uncomfortably warm in the arid lair, waiting for him to address you. You've got no idea how to stand so you look cool when you're completely naked and freshly post-orgasmic. In an attempt to regain one of your shields, you decaptchalogue your shades and slip them on your face.

"Hero," Yaldabaoth intones. "It's time for you to leave."

"Wait," you say, and not only because you're gonna have to put some clothes on first. "You're not going to help me? Did I do something wrong?"

The air fills with an ancient creak, like a bucket being pulled up from the depths of an old well. It takes a moment for you to realize it's Yaldabaoth sighing.

"Prince of Heart," he says. "I am a denizen. I have lived in this world outside your universe for millennia, since the beginning of your universe, awaiting your arrival. However, my knowledge is not limited to your session or your personal affairs. Each instance of a denizen retains the knowledge and experience of every instance. I am a figure that exists in the cracks between all universes. My foresight is as limitless as my age." His light flickers. "And that was one of the worst failures to grasp the challenge of which I have knowledge."

Fuck. The first thought in your head is that Arquius is going to mock you a lot for this one, and your second thought is that the fact that that's your primary concern is probably one of the things that is wrong with you.

"Prince, you yourself list narcissism among your flaws, and yet when faced with the opportunity to overcome it, you revel in it. You are not ready or willing to change." Yaldabaoth is starting to sound slightly less like an ancient god and more like a peevish acquaintance. "Also, frankly, that display was rather distasteful. I would prefer it if you left now. On a personal level."

Some wisdom of the ages. Fuming, you pick up your clothes from the ground and start to dress.

It's not like you're not trying to change. What the fuck were you supposed to do when faced with a copy of yourself? Ignore it? This is exactly why you came here in the first place. Because you have no idea what you're supposed to do to get over yourself.

"Fuck this," you say, pushing your hood back. "You can't tell me anything about how to make my powers work?"

The denizen's coils are moving again, his great body slowly but continuously twining over and through itself. "You came all the way down to my lair to ask me," he says, "rather than figure it out on your own. Did you truly think I could help?"

Yeah, you did, but you should have known better. Nothing in this game has helped you out so far. Your sprite is a headache personified, your planet's air tried to asphyxiate you, and your powers are a big wet disappointment. But fuck that. Nothing's worked the way you wanted it to your whole life, and you've always managed to figure shit out. Keeping your head above water is your specialty, even if it feels like you're swimming through concrete. Even if apparently this is so fucking easy for everyone else, people who don't have to fight their own personalities every second.

"No, you're right," you say. "I'll figure it out." You pull on your shoes, and head the fuck out of there. You don't look back.

> [TRY AGAIN?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/967414#tryagain)


End file.
